The Adventure of the Blue Crocodile
by phoebenpiper
Summary: [Sherlock/Primeval crossover] Four deaths, seemingly from animal attacks. So why is Sherlock interested? And why is Mycroft warning them off? Is the government somehow involved? Set after Sherlock 2.2 & Primeval 4.6.


The Adventure of the Blue Crocodile

by phoebenpiper

...

"Any ideas?"

Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade once again asked this now familiar question, this time whilst stood on the Embankment, pulling back the black plastic at his feet.

Despite the poor lighting supplied by the officers who were unlucky enough to be on the night shift, the sight of the corpse instantly sent my brain into full medical mode, identifying and diagnosing every wound-deep lacerations to the thighs and abdomen, jagged removal of the intestines and other organs, what might appear to be defensive injuries to the hands but no obvious injuries to the head or feet. I sometimes wonder if this automatic analysis that my brain does when faced with medical mysteries is similar to what Sherlock must experience when faced with, well, everything; if so, it's no wonder he often lacks common courtesy!

Which he was obviously lacking at this moment.

"Only one idea: you're an idiot," he stated, loudly and with no attempt to disguise his annoyance, as he turned and headed back through the eager crowd of onlookers towards the waiting cab we'd only just arrived in.

"But don't you think-?" Lestrade began, chasing after, but Sherlock cut him off.

"I think, but obviously you don't," he said, leaning against the already opened cab door. "Any idiot can see this is simply another animal attack. What on earth compelled you to get me out of bed in the middle of the night for such nonsense? Were you bored? Or simply insane?"

"Sherlock!" I scolded, blushing like a mother whose child had just said something inexcusable.

In this case, the "child" turned to me, stating matter-of-factly, "It's said that the definition of insanity if doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results. Is this not the fourth time in as many days that Lestrade has called us out to the riverside to investigate what is obviously not a homicide-?"

"Ah, but that's exactly it," the Inspector interrupted, seemingly not letting Sherlock's insanity comment get his back up. "Four times in as many days. All the bodies found along the Thames, far from where they were last seen. Don't you think there might be some kind of connection?"

Sherlock opened his mouth as if to reply, but instead of speaking, I noticed his eyes starting to dart about the gathered crowd, his mind obviously awhirl as he fully took in his surroundings. After a moment, he began giving Lestrade orders. "Bring those two in to the station," he announced, pointing at a young couple in the midst of the crowd before turning and pointing in the opposite direction, "and those two. That soldier as well. We'll meet you there."

And with that he sat down and slammed the cab door.

...

I didn't manage to get much out of him on the drive to the station. When I'd asked if he'd changed his mind and thought the five people were somehow responsible for the killings, he'd given me a withering look before closing his eyes and lying back against the headrest, though I doubted he was actually trying to catch more sleep on the ride.

When we arrived, Sherlock bolted from the cab, obviously rejuvenated from his minutes-long kip, and hurried inside, leaving me to pay the fare. When I entered the station, he was nowhere in sight. However, a young, pretty girl was stood at the empty front desk, trying desperately to catch someone's attention. She was clad in a grey raincoat which completed concealed the short skirt she was no-doubt wearing underneath, though it surely matched the bright orange of her headband and strappy high heels. She seemed nearly frantic as she tried to wave down one of the officers, so I felt I ought to offer the girl some assistance.

"Might I help?" I asked, realising as I approached her that she would probably stand shorter than me in stocking feet, but in her heels she towered several inches above.

She, however, didn't seem concerned with the height difference at present, her mind clearly occupied with other worries. "Oh, yes, please. My flatmates were brought in, you see, and I've no idea why, and I'm desperate to see them, if I may, but I'm not sure where they've gone, and heaven knows why they're being questioned-IF they're being questioned-because we-they haven't done anything, and I-"

Having realised that I'd never be able to get a word in otherwise, I interrupted, "Were they, by chance, at the Embankment?"

The girl's large blue eyes sparkled. "Yes! We were just-I mean, we'd been walking along and saw the police line and wandered over to see what was going on, and the next thing I knew, Abby and Connor were being grabbed and shoved into a police car, without any sort of explanation, so naturally I followed straightaway to make sure they were okay."

Taking in her outfit once again, especially her exposed legs, I sincerely doubted that she'd been merely out for a stroll at 2 a.m. on such a cold, damp night, but she seemed the innocent sort, with those big blue eyes of hers, so I felt it my duty to assuage her fears.

"The police were just eager to question some of the witnesses," I said, not even knowing the real reason enough to deceive her. "I'm sure they'll be-"

"Jess!"

The girl and I both turned towards the source of the deep voice, a tall, dark, and handsome man Sherlock had referred to as a "soldier," despite his non-military-issued red plaid shirt.

"Becker!" the girl-evidently Jess-squealed, rushing to where the man was being escorted into the lobby. "They arrested you, too?!"

Becker nodded grimly, grumbling, "Matt and Emily as well."

"Emily?!" Jess gasped, clearly surprised and upset by this news. "But she doesn't even have-"

Becker cut her off with an acknowledging nod. "I've no idea what's going on, but it could be serious. You'd best contact Lester."

"I'll ring him straightaway," Jess said, pulling her mobile out of her handbag and dialling the number before Becker had even been led off.

Realising I wasn't going to get anywhere with Jess, whose heart was obviously beating only for the handsome soldier, I followed the officer and his lucky charge into the back.

...

As we gathered outside the interview rooms where the five had each been placed, Lestrade asked the question I'd been wondering myself: "So can I at least be told why we're interviewing these people? Are they suspects in the killings?"

"Are they animals?" Sherlock answered with an eyeroll, which confirmed that he still thought the killings were animal attacks but gave no indication as to why he was interested in the five people they'd brought in.

And being a bit tired and out of sorts myself, I pointed out, "Technically, humans are animals."

This elicited an amused smile from Greg before he asked, "So if they're not suspects, what exactly shall we be questioning them about?"

Sherlock didn't answer and merely strode confidently into the first interview room. Greg gave me an inquisitive look, but I merely shrugged and followed Sherlock, hoping his lead would be easy to follow.

However, his questioning seemed to jump from topic to topic, seemingly with no rhyme or reason, such that Lestrade and I were forced to make our own inquiries.

...

"So who is Jess?" I casually asked the blonde girl, named Abigail Maitland per her driving licence, though Jess had referred to her simply as Abby.

The sudden concern evident on the girl's face instantly gave away their friendship, just as Sherlock's confused and slightly annoyed, "Jess?" made it clear he hadn't given a second glance to the pretty girl in the lobby earlier.

"She didn't get brought in as well, did she?" Abby asked as Lestrade frantically shuffled through the papers on his lap, obviously looking for Jess' name amongst those who'd been brought in.

I, however, shook my head. "No, but she followed you here. She's worried about you."

"Who is she?" Lestrade asked.

"Our flatmate," the blonde girl answered simply, though I guessed there was more to their relationship than simply that.

"Our?" Sherlock asked.

"Mine and Connor's," she explained.

"Connor Temple," Lestrade confirmed, checking his paperwork. "He's next door."

Though Sherlock wouldn't be meeting that lad tonight-coward!

...

"Dr. John Watson!" Connor gushed as I entered the interview room. "I'd knows ya anywhere! I read your blog religiously. _HanSolo83_ , I am-I'm the one what messaged you about the hounds last week, remember? I can't believe I'm actually here, at Scotland Yard, being interrogated by the Dr. Watson!"

No wonder Sherlock had said he'd let me and Greg handle this one.

Greg was looking decidedly amused. "A fan of Sherlock Holmes, are you?"

"Well, 'course, Sherlock's the one what solves the cases, but Dr. Watson here, he's the one what writes 'em all down! Without him, we'd never even know about the cases. I mean, Hat-Man and Robin-it's brilliant, simply brilliant! And The Geek Interpreter. And obviously A Study in Pink! You write so well, I really feel like I'm there in the same room with ya, studying the corpses."

"Do you enjoy corpses?" Lestrade asked nonchalantly.

"Well, no more than the next person, I reckon. Besides, I see enough of them in me job."

Greg and I shared a look before launching into our next question.

...

It turned out Sherlock had been correct-Captain Hilary Becker was, in fact, a soldier. Or at least he had been. Yet he seemed evasive when asked where he was currently serving.

"Still on the Army payroll, I see," Lestrade stated, gesturing to his paperwork, "but not currently assigned to any base. Are you teaching now?"

Becker merely raised an eyebrow, knowing, as I did, that instructing at Sandhurst or another such assignment would show on his military records. I glanced at the papers on the table in front of Lestrade and was pleased to see something that could perhaps give me an in.

"Captain John Watson, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers," I introduced myself. "Where in Afghanistan did you serve, Captain Becker? Camp Bastion?"

His eyes twinkled even as he shook his head, obviously detecting in me a kindred spirit. "FOB Shahzad. You?"

But before I could answer, Sherlock impatiently leapt in with, "Yes, yes, enough with the male bonding," effectively ending any sort of brotherly camaraderie I might have been establishing and returning the sullen soldier to nonverbal answers once again.

...

Matt Anderson, it seemed, had an army background as well, yet I could get nothing out of him. In fact, none of us could. If I hadn't known better, I would've guessed he was a spy, he had such a nonresponsive look about him. It was clearly frustrating Sherlock for he was starting to get testy...though that could just as easily have been low blood sugar or the fact that it was nearing 4 a.m.

"What's this?" Sherlock demanded, slamming a small black object down on the table in front of the man.

Matt barely blinked at the violent motion, instead merely staring blankly at the object before meeting Sherlock's intense gaze with an emotionless one.

I, too, stared at the object. The small black box looked electronic in nature and appeared to have some sort of tiny antenna, as if it were a communication device of sorts, though none I was familiar with. But where had Sherlock obtained it from, I wondered.

"This was taken from you when you arrived," Sherlock stated impatiently, sounding strangely frustrated for such a factual statement.

Matt stared back placidly, unmoved by Sherlock's emotional outburst. "Then it must be mine," he stated calmly.

...

The last interviewee was a stunner. Not conventionally pretty like Jess, yet even without make-up, in her worn leather jacket and simple man's shirt and jeans, it was hard not to stare at her expressive dark eyes and long, dark curls.

Though it was still surprising that Sherlock was staring...and was so silent. He'd certainly interviewed his share of beautiful women before, yet he'd never seemed so distracted, not even with The Woman. Had we finally stumbled upon Sherlock's type?

True, there was no denying that he had yet to ask her a single question. And his eyes kept roving over her, taking in every inch of her attractive being, including, no doubt, her simple gold wedding band. Yet I somehow sensed no lust in his preoccupation; the only desire I detected was his desire to figure her out, to solve the mystery of who she was.

So why was he leaving all the questioning to me and Greg?

"You had no ID on you when we brought you in," the Inspector stated, referring once again to his invaluable paperwork. "Do you think it wise to be wandering the city so late at night without any ID?"

The woman-Emily Merchant per what little paperwork there was-looked confused at the question. "I. D.?"

"Identification," I quickly clarified, realising she did not recognise the abbreviation, making me wonder if perhaps she were a foreigner.

Now understanding what was being asked of her, she stated matter-of-factly, "They have not yet had time to acquire an identity for me."

It was an odd answer, but not quite so odd if English were not her first language. So I asked the obvious next question: "Where are you from?"

She didn't hesitate. "London."

I thought perhaps she hadn't understood the question. "I mean, where are you from originally?"

She frowned, as if annoyed that I was repeating myself. "London," she said again. "I was born here."

Apparently having caught on to what I'd been getting at, Lestrade asked, "But where have you been since? Have you been travelling? Living elsewhere for some time?"

Emily nodded warily. "I have been travelling these last three years. Why?"

I sensed her unease and tried to give a reassuring smile. "Three years? That's brilliant. I love travelling-it gives one such a fresh outlook on things. Where have you been?"

But Emily frowned once again before demanding impatiently, "Why have you brought me here? Have I done something wrong?"

Not knowing the answer to either question, I turned to Sherlock, hoping he'd educate us all.

But he continued to stare at the girl, saying nothing, a look of what I can only describe as fascination upon his face.

...

"So you're a zoologist?" Lestrade asked, reading from his print-out. "Worked at Wellington Zoo, I see."

As the blonde girl nodded, Sherlock frowned. "Wellington?" he asked, clearly recognising the name from somewhere, though I couldn't seem to place it. "Didn't they have a problem with animal attacks a few years back?"

Now it was Abby's turn to frown. "Yes, my boss and several others were killed. They had to put the lion down, I'm afraid."

"Did it get out?" Lestrade blurted out, echoing my own thoughts.

The girl paused, as if trying to remember the party line. My mind momentarily flashed on the lacerations we'd seen on the body tonight, though I guessed that lions, like other cats, weren't fond of water. Still, if a lion could escape, surely other predators could as well.

Is that what Sherlock was thinking?

...

"Why were you there tonight?"

Becker answered Lestrade's question the same way he'd answered the last several, with a simple raised eyebrow.

So I thought I'd try a new tactic, one I thought was more likely to elicit some sort of response.

"Why was Jess there?"

As I'd hoped, this startled the soldier out of his silence. "Jess? What about Jess? She's nothing to do with this. You didn't arrest her as well, did you?" The flash in his eyes and the protective stance he'd now taken in his seat made it clear that the feelings I'd observed in the pretty girl upon the soldier's arrival were evidently mutual. Ah well, yet another pretty girl I wouldn't have a chance with!

Sherlock, however, was resuming the questioning. "If you know she has nothing to do with this, then you must also know who has."

Realising there was no safe answer to this question, the soldier merely answered once again with only his eyebrow.

...

"Abby ain't interested, but Jess, she reads your blog, too. 'Course, she's got time to kill at the hub all day, so I don't doubt she reads loads of blogs. I used to, too, only now I don't have the time, now that I'm working for Philip."

Connor's monologue stopped so abruptly, it was clear he'd said too much.

"Philip?" Lestrade prompted.

But Connor eagerly looked towards the door to the interview room, completely changing the subject as he asked, "So, is Sherlock gonna ask me questions, too, or is it just you two? Not that you two can't detect things on her own. I mean, yer career with Scotland Yard ain't nothing to sneeze at," he said, giving an impressed nod towards the Inspector. "Only I saw Sherlock at the Embankment, so's I know you called him in. Do you think it's a murder? What's forensics got to say? And that coroner-Molly, right? Does she think it's a murder? 'Cuz I'd think the lacerations would suggest a creature attack. Not that I know nothing 'bout creature attacks-that's more Abby's specialty than mine. Where is she, by the way? You better be treating her good, or else you'll have me to answer to.

"Hey, is there a loo in here? Not in here, obviously, because it's just an interview room, but I mean here at the station? 'Cuz I'm thinking I probably shouldn't've drunk all that coffee when we got the call, but I was having a hard time getting out of bed, you know? I mean, I got so little sleep last year, I'm still making up for it. Of course, I didn't have coffee then. You know, now that I'm talking 'bout it, I really gotta go. You're gonna let me go, right? I mean, you're not gonna torture a confession outta me by not letting me go, are you? 'Cuz you ain't getting nothing outta me...'cept probably a few litres of piss!"

...

"When did you get the call?"

Matt Anderson didn't frown at the question as Greg and I did; instead, he asked blankly, "The call?"

Sherlock gave an annoyed sigh which was quite un-Sherlock-like; he was usually calm and rational during interrogations. "You hadn't been out all night-you came to the Embankment because you'd received a call, summoning you. When did you receive it? And from whom?"

Ah, the call Connor had mentioned. I'd forgotten that Sherlock had been listening in on his questioning while carefully staying out of sight. But what seemed weird about Sherlock's line of questioning was that he usually knew the answers before he asked the questions, curious only to see if and how the responders would lie. Yet it was clear from Sherlock's tone that he didn't know the answer to anything he was asking of the unresponsive man.

And Matt must've sensed this as well for there was a hint of a smile on his face as he shrugged, responding simply, "I've no idea what you're talking about."

...

"Am I to understand that you are members of the constabulary?"

Foreign or not, the brunette's word choices were definitely antiquated. But since it seemed, from her tone, that she was hoping for an affirmative response, I let Greg answer.

"Yes, I'm a Detective Inspector."

Emily gave a relieved sigh. "That is good to hear. Perhaps you will be able to help us locate a man-his name is Ethan Dobrowski. We must needs locate him before he maltreats someone else."

"Else?" I repeated, guessing at what it implied. "Did he hurt you?"

She seemed to brush that aside. "That is of no matter, for I am here now. But I overhead that a neighbour of Matt's was not so fortunate."

This interview was certainly taking an interesting turn. As Greg started frantically shuffling through his paper files and Sherlock continued to stare, fascinated, at the bewitching creature in front of him, I realised it was up to me to keep the interview going.

"So...this Ethan fellow killed someone?" I asked, wanting to clarify before Greg got all worked up for nothing.

"Yes, though I am uncertain as to how. He did have my dagger...but no," she concluded, continuing almost to herself, "that would have been before he abducted me."

Greg's shuffling was becoming even more frenzied, and I finally noticed Sherlock remove his gaze from the interviewee, for the first time since we entered the room, to quickly flip through his phone. After only a few seconds, he shoved his phone across me to Greg. I glanced over at the screen to see a news article about an unknown killing occurring just a few days before.

But Emily did not seem to even notice what was happening on our side of the table. Instead, she looked about impatiently, stating, "I require paper, if I am to sketch for you."

Sherlock, however, didn't seem interested in leaving the room as he was once again staring at her, enthralled.

...

"With it being so dark," Abby was saying, "I wasn't able to get a good look at the body tonight, but I'm guessing the wounds were similar to the others?"

"Others?" I asked.

But instead of allowing Abby to make her own confession, Sherlock gave me an irritated look, saying, "Of course, 'others'! She's no fool-she knows I recognised her and her friends from the sites of the other animal attacks."

The look of sudden realisation on Greg's face, which no doubt matched my own, made me feel somewhat less foolish. Of course, that's why Sherlock had brought them in-it all made sense now. Every time Lestrade had called us out these last few days, Sherlock had been silently noticing the crowd gathered about, gawking over the police line, but it wasn't until tonight, when fewer people were about, that he'd recognised the familiar faces.

But why had they been there? And why hadn't Sherlock recognised Jess, who clearly seemed linked to the rest of them? Surely Sherlock would've recognised those big blue eyes of hers, even in the darkness, so that suggested she hadn't been at the other sites. So what made this one different? Because the body had been discovered at night instead of during the daytime? But why would that make a difference?

I was about to inquire when I realised that the conversation had already gone on without me.

"Due to the proximity to the river, I'd presume it to be a large predator, like a crocodile," Abby was saying. "An escaped zoo animal is certainly an option, though I've heard no reports of any. Regardless, something is out there killing, and I believe we all are eager to stop it, yeah?"

She certainly had a point.

...

"So Captain, how long have you been back from medical leave?"

Surely the frowns on both the soldier's and the Inspector's faces matched my own, surprised by Sherlock's sudden segue.

Luckily he needed no further prompting to go on. "The moment you entered the interview room, you started favouring your left leg, indicating you were openly willing to let me see your pain, meaning it's not simply a matter of pride. Therefore, you must have been hiding it specifically from your friends-your coworkers, I'd wager-implying you don't want them to know you're not fully healed. So how'd you get your doctor to allow your return to duty so early-bribery, or merely persuasion?"

I hated when Sherlock outwitted me in what should be my own area of expertise, and I chastised myself for not having paid closer attention to the soldier's slight limp. Of course, Becker did not look pleased that anyone had noticed or that he'd been stupid enough to let his guard down, thus exposing his weakness, and therefore he only replied with an angry glare.

The Inspector, who clearly wanted to get more information out of the soldier at some point, soothed, "Don't worry, we've no reason to tell the others."

However, Becker didn't trust that the Inspector was speaking for all of us and shot Sherlock a wary look. And while Sherlock could have made more of an effort to concur, his bored shrug, indicating he couldn't care less about the soldier's secret, was certainly more reassuring than what I'd expected his reaction to be.

Convinced that we were not going to rat him out to the others, the soldier finally answered simply, "The doctor agreed I'm well enough to do my job."

"And what exactly IS your job?" Greg asked.

"It's certainly not sitting here all night answering your pointless questions."

And that was the last question to which he actually replied.

...

When my phone first beeped, I ignored it. After all, there was only one person who would be texting me at this hour, and if he had something to say, he could bloody well come into the interview room and say it. However, after the third message, Greg frowned at me, asking, "Shouldn't you check that?"

I, however, merely shook my head, refusing to give in to Sherlock's childish games. But after another four, even MY curiosity was piqued.

"Oh, iz'at Sherlock?" Connor asked eagerly, peering across the table, trying to catch a glimpse as I pulled out my phone. "If so, you should tell 'im to get in here."

I nodded absently-after all this, I had every intention of telling Sherlock precisely where he could go. But for now, I skimmed through the messages, ignoring Sherlock's impatient complaints about my ignoring him. I would've ignored his request as well, but fearing Connor might launch back into his detailed analysis of the latest _Doctor Who_ episode, I decided I had nothing to lose by asking the question.

"So tell me about Matt Anderson."

Connor shrugged. "What about 'im? He's climbed Everest, you know-can't say that about most. He's not exactly the world's chattiest, but he's done alright by us. Trusted me and Abby straightaway when we got back, even though we was strangers. That's just Matt, willing to put himself on the line for anyone, no questions asked. Just like he done for Emily."

At this point he stopped abruptly, as if he'd said too much.

"What about Emily?" the Inspector prompted. "What did Matt do for her?"

Connor smiled, a twinkle in his eye. "Not as much as he'd like, I'm guessing from the way he looks at her. And frankly, I'm surprised he brought her tonight, after-" And again he pulled himself up short, clearly not wanting to give too much away. However, he seemed the sort who would give in and spill all his secrets when confronted with an uncomfortable silence, so Greg and I just sat there, saying nothing.

Unfortunately, the silence didn't last, as my phone began to erupt with more of Sherlock's anxious texts.

"Seems important, mate," Connor said, his last train of thought clearly derailed. "You should probably go deal with that, yeah?"

...

"So, you climbed Mt. Everest?" I asked, somewhat interested, and became infinitely more so when the Irishman momentarily frowned before quickly returning his expression to a more neutral one.

"Got hold of my records, I see."

Greg shook his head. "More like a chatty coworker."

Matt nodded, a wry twinkle in his eyes as he replied, "Becker will go on and on."

Greg and I both laughed, convinced we could count all the words spoken by the grumpy soldier on one hand. Sherlock's expression, however, remained grim, but I soon realised it was not because he had not gotten the joke but because he'd been too busy pulling something out from beneath the table. Glancing over at the item, I realised it somewhat resembled a staple gun, and I was curious as to what it was and where it had come from.

Sherlock was obviously interested in the former question as well. "What is it?"

The man across the table shrugged. "It's not mine."

"I'm well aware. It was seized from Captain Becker when he was brought in." Sherlock was turning it over and over in his hands, examining it.

"Is it a weapon?" Greg asked, peering past me to try to catch a better glimpse.

Matt shook his head. "It's scientific equipment."

Sherlock looked dubious. "Scientific equipment?" he repeated. "Is that what you lot were doing out there tonight? Science?"

"Weren't you?"

Most members of the public-even his number-one fans-tended to forget that Sherlock was a chemist by training, but apparently this fact had not been lost on Matt.

And the device's on-switch had apparently not been lost on Sherlock for suddenly a light on the device blinked on and an electronic whirring, like something gaining electrical charge, sounded. Sherlock instantly pointed it across the table, saying, "Let's experiment, shall we?"

"Sherlock!" I scolded as Greg insisted, "You can't shoot the interviewees!"

"Why not?" Sherlock asked, nodding at Matt as he said, "He doesn't seem to mind."

And he didn't. The man across the table wore the same placid expression he'd had for most of the time he'd been in this room, meaning either the device wasn't a weapon or he was the world's best poker player.

Greg, however, could not take a risk on the latter. "Put down the weapon, Sherlock!"

"But it's not fatal," Sherlock insisted, like a petulant child. "He barely flinched when I pointed it at him."

"That doesn't matter. Suicide by cop is a real phenomenon, you know."

Meanwhile, I was trying my best to get the weapon away. I knew better than to grab it, because a struggle might cause the device to go off, so instead I calmly wrapped my hands around Sherlock's and kept repeating, "Give it. Give it," like a patient dog trainer.

Finally Sherlock sighed with frustration and let me take the weapon away. I instantly pointed it at the floor and attempted to "secure" the weapon by carefully searching for an off-switch, which I conveniently found where the safety would be located on a comparable firearm, thus suggesting that it was an actual weapon. But where had it come from? And why had the Irishman seemed so unperturbed at it being aimed at him?

There were now tons of questions that I longed to ask, but it was clear that Greg thought we all needed some fresh air for he quickly, and without preamble, herded Sherlock and me out of the interview room.

...

I was greatly impressed by Emily's quick sketch. Based on the details in her drawing, it was clear this fellow was no mere acquaintance.

Greg must've been thinking along the same lines for he asked, "How long have you known him?"

"We travelled together for several years.'

So at least that part of her story held together. "What made you return to London?" I asked, simply curious.

But for the first time, a cloud seemed to pass over the beautiful woman's face. "Charlotte, my dear friend, had grown ill. Ethan believed there was medicine here that would cure her." Emily gave a melancholy sigh. "But it seems we were too late."

Her comment suggested they must have been travelling in some exotic location, since basic medicine was available in most corners of the world. I had read a recent journal article about a new pill for skin cancer that had just been approved in the UK and wondered if that could be why they'd sought out London.

I couldn't tell if Lestrade had also been wondering about her friend's illness for he was just about to ask a question when the door suddenly opened. Sherlock looked up, startled, and uttered his first words in this particular interview room.

"Mycroft? What are you doing here?"

The older Holmes didn't even bother to acknowledge his younger sibling, instead announcing matter-of-factly, "They're free to go."

"What?" the Inspector asked blankly.

Mycroft turned towards Emily, stating, "I'm sorry you were detained, my lady. You are free to go."

Emily gave a polite nod as she stood, sliding the sketch across the table towards us. She then made for the door, turning at the threshold to give one last instruction: "If you locate Ethan, you must let us know, as soon as possible."

As the Holmes boys started into each other, the Inspector rushed from the room, clearly wanting to ensure that any toe-stepping that might have been done would not be blamed on him. This left me alone, standing in the doorway, to silently observe the former detainees.

Matt had been waiting outside for Emily, a look of concern upon his face that I hadn't seen once when he was being interviewed. "Are you okay?" he asked.

She gave a curt nod, insisting, "They were not very helpful."

Stifling my own laugh, I watched as Matt smiled warmly back at her, strong emotion twinkling in his eyes. It seems Connor had been right about Matt's feelings, wedding ring or no. I guessed I'd have to be the one to break it to Sherlock the beautiful woman was not available.

Abby and Connor were already reunited, his excited voice carrying as he gushed, "But don't you get it? That was Dr. Watson, of the Hat-Man blog-we was just interrogated by a REAL detective mastermind! How brilliant is that?!"

I could only imagine his disappointment when he learnt that the others had been interviewed by Sherlock himself!

I was pleased to see Jess was still here, though it wasn't exactly a shock-she didn't seem the sort to go home to bed when her mates were in trouble.

Although the soldier seemed surprised to see her. "Jess, what are you still doing here?"

"Getting you out, silly. Sorry it took so long-Lester was dealing with some mess his pets had apparently gotten into whilst he was sleeping."

Becker raised an inquisitive eyebrow-so apparently that wasn't just an interrogation technique. "Pets? I wouldn't think Lester would be the sort."

Jess shrugged. "I'm guessing he inherited them from someone, as I don't really see him naming two adorable kitties Sid and Nancy, do you?" As the others came into earshot, she announced to them all, "I've called and arranged rides home for the rest of you. And Lester said we didn't need to be in till nine tomorrow."

"Nine?" Connor whined. "That don't give us much time to sleep in."

"At least it gives us a few hours," Abby said, lovingly wrapping her arm around the tired lad as they all headed out of the station.

The Holmes boys' altercation had apparently come to a close because Mycroft was suddenly at my side, stating lowly in my ear, "Do try to keep him out of trouble. He should stay out of this-it isn't something he should be sticking his nose into." And suddenly Mycroft, too, was gone. As I started to yawn, I glanced at my watch, realising it was late and we should be getting home. Sherlock was still in the final interview room, sulking, no doubt, so I went back to fetch him.

"Shall we?" I asked, nodding towards the door.

His brow wrinkled, as if momentarily confused by my gesture, before the light seemed to dawn and he jumped to his feet. "Ah yes, I suppose you'll want some sleep before we get started."

I didn't like the sound of that. "Started with what?" I asked warily. "Mycroft said we're to stay out of it."

"Oh, stuff Mycroft!" Sherlock said dismissively. "If they sent Mycroft, it must be important." His eyes twinkled with merriment as I felt a nervous churning in the pit of my stomach.

It wasn't until we were in the cab, halfway home, that Sherlock casually commented, "We must thank Lestrade for calling us in."

...

When I awoke a few hours later, I found Sherlock hard at work, clearly never having gone back to bed himself. I sighed, certain that Sherlock was only going to get us in trouble for pursuing this mystery against Mycroft's orders, and became even more certain when I saw what was in his hands.

"That's Matt Anderson's," I said, staring at the black box that was now lying dismantled on the coffee table. "You stole personal property!"

"I needed it," he said simply, as if that were justification for breaking the law.

"Don't tell me you stole the weapon as well," I asked, mentally trying to total all the charges that could be brought against him.

Sherlock gave me a wry look. "Don't you mean 'scientific equipment'?" He returned his attention to the interior components of the black box as he continued, "But no, I didn't take it. Lestrade gave it to some constable with orders not to let me near it and to return it directly to Captain Becker."

He was clearly upset by this, but I felt only relief. I could just see Sherlock testing the weapon right as Mrs. Hudson walked in and me having to explain to everyone why my flatmate had been wielding a stolen weapon.

Imagining how bad it could've been, I was no longer as concerned about Sherlock's theft. After all, Lestrade hadn't yet hunted us down, so clearly Mr. Anderson hadn't lodged a complaint about his missing item. But that was only a matter of time, so the sooner Sherlock could finish his exam and return the item, the better.

"So what is it?" I asked, noticing that, amongst the various wires and plastic pieces now strewn about on the table, there appeared to be a memory card and a SIM. "Is it a phone?"

Sherlock shook his head. "But it's definitely a communication device of some kind. The data on the microSD are clearly scientific readings of some sort, though they're nothing I recognise."

Scientific readings? I wondered what the government was hiding. We'd only just learnt of the government's experiments at Baskerville, which Mycroft had also been involved with, and now here were more people being killed by animals and Mycroft trying to keep us away. While I didn't want to encourage Sherlock's inquiry, I was beginning to grow curious myself.

But first I needed some tea to wake up. I headed towards the kitchen, asking the mostly rhetorical question, "Did you put the kettle on?"

Surprisingly, Sherlock responded. "You've no time for tea. You need to get over to Barts. Molly's scheduled to do that autopsy on last night's victim this morning."

"Why me?" I asked. "Don't you want to be there?"

"Why? To learn the details of some boring animal attack?"

I was about to ask why I need go to the autopsy, if he was so certain of the results, but I knew there would be no point in arguing with him.

But dammit, I was still going to make myself some tea!

...

"So Sherlock's not coming?" Molly asked, still looking hopefully around as if Sherlock were merely lagging behind.

"I'm afraid not."

Molly nodded, sighing. "So what did you need to know?"

"We're curious about last night's...um...animal attack?"

"Another one?" Molly asked, surprised. She then grew even more so as she asked, "Why would Sherlock be interested in an animal attack?"

I shrugged. "Your guess is as good as mine." I didn't think it wise to say much else, in case Mycroft followed up on us. Plausible deniability was going to be Molly's best defence if Sherlock ended up stepping on toes.

"Does he think there's someone other than animals involved?" Molly asked. "Or is it merely the oddity of four animal attacks in as many days, which does seem a bit of a coincidence?"

"I believe it's the latter," I said. "So tell me about them. Do all the attacks appear to be from the same type of animal?"

"The previous ones, yes." Molly led him over to the refrigerator wall and opened up the drawer containing the latest victim. Giving the body a quick once-over, she added, "This one seems consistent as well. Note the deep lacerations to the thighs and abdomen and the jagged removal of the intestines and other organs. The others were similar, even down to the lack of injuries to the head and feet."

Before she could go further into an exam, the door to the lab opened and in walked two now-familiar faces!

Apparently they were familiar to Molly as well for she greeted them warmly: "Matt. Abby. Welcome back. I'm guessing this is what you're here to see?"

But the pair weren't looking at the corpse; they were looking at me, obviously as surprised to see me as I was to see them.

"Dr. Watson," Matt calmly greeted.

Now it was Molly's turn to be surprised. "Oh! So you know each other?"

Matt nodded, adding drily, "We were out late together last night."

Abby clearly felt uncomfortable explaining things further to Molly and simply asked, "So may we have a look, Dr. Hooper?"

Molly nodded. "I haven't opened him up yet." She stepped away from the body as the two newcomers gathered around him. I, too, had stepped away, reaching into my pocket for my mobile. Surely Sherlock would want to know that two of his suspects had shown up here at the morgue, obviously not for the first time.

Unfortunately, my mobile was not in any of my pockets, even when I checked the third and fourth times.

"What's wrong?" Molly asked.

"I can't seem to find my mobile."

"Oh, I drop mine all the time," Molly said. "As long as I haven't stitched them up yet, it's not a problem. Do you want me to ring you so we can locate it?"

I was too busy imagining a ringtone sounding eerily from inside a corpse to answer her straightaway. I eventually noticed her mobile pulled out and quickly gave her my number, straining to hear the resultant ring. However, when we heard nothing, I concluded I must have left my mobile at home, for I didn't remember using it on the tube, having still been half asleep on the ride in, not having had my morning tea.

In the meantime, the others had seemed to finish their exam.

"Well?" Molly asked.

Abby nodded. "Looks to be the same as the others."

"So what do you think caused it?"

I noticed Abby give a quick look towards Matt before answering. "It appears to have been some sort of large reptile, most likely a small crocodile."

"A crocodile?" I blurted incredulously. "In the middle of the Thames?"

Abby shrugged. "People collect all sorts of exotic reptiles on their travels and bring them back here. Once they grow too big, people often simply toss them out into a foreign environment which the animals aren't accustomed to instead of trying to find them a good home in a zoo or wild animal park." Clearly Abby took this sort of cavalier attitude towards these living creatures very personally.

But I was still trying to wrap my head around what she was saying. "So that urban myth about crocodiles in the sewers is real?"

"Alligators," Molly said quietly under her breath, and when I turned to her, she explained, "The myth is alligators in the sewers, not crocs."

Either way, I hoped that Sherlock would grow bored and stop pursuing this.

Especially since I still had no idea what "this" was.

...

"So guess who was at Barts?"

Sherlock answered without even glancing away from his computer. "Matt Anderson and Abby Maitland."

I couldn't believe it! "How'd you know? Did Molly ring you?"

Sherlock gave me an annoyed look, as if I were blind to the obvious. "Abby is the one most directly involved with the animals, and Matt is clearly the leader."

Apparently I was blind to the obvious. Sherlock's deductions were spot-on. It was frustrating always being beaten to the punch-just once I'd like to figure out something before Sherlock.

But as that wasn't likely to happen anytime soon, I asked the next obvious question. "Have you seen my mobile?"

Sherlock gestured towards the coffee table, where he'd obviously given up on the puzzle of the mysterious black box for the pieces were still strewn everywhere. I grabbed my mobile from the midst of the mess and stuck it in my pocket without even checking my messages-after all, who ever messaged me besides Sherlock?

"So what have you learnt?" I asked, taking a seat.

" _HanSolo83_ has an active online presence. Considering the calibre of sites he frequents, you shouldn't exactly be flattered that he's a faithful follower of yours."

Ah, yes-Connor's screen name. "Does he talk about a missing pet crocodile? Because that's all this seems to be."

"That's the same conclusion they've come to," Sherlock said, gesturing to the screen. The banner at the top read _Weird Sightings Forum_ and the page contained assorted blurry photos of what could possibly be the tail of a blue-tinted crocodile disappearing into the water.

I breathed a sigh of relief-surely Sherlock would stop his investigation now.

"You have to go meet this guy."

Apparently not.

"What guy?"

"His screen name's Truthseeker-with 3's instead of e's-but his real name's Duncan Bradshaw. He's the photographer."

Glancing at the blurry photos again, I doubted "photographer" was the proper term. "Why me, Sherlock?" I didn't even know what he was hoping to find.

But he didn't seem to care. "He's expecting you. At Green Park. I hired you a deckchair."

"A deckchair? But it's raining."

"Then he'll have no trouble spotting you. Here's your ticket."

Knowing it was pointless to argue, I took the print-out, grabbed my umbrella, and headed for the front door.

...

As the train pulled into Bond Street, the man across the aisle stood, carelessly tossing his newspaper on his now empty seat as he headed for the exit. I waited for the doors to open and the man to step out before reaching over and snatching up the paper. It turned out to only be _The Sun_ , but at least it was something to read. I glanced at the headlines and then started mindlessly flipping past the Page 3 girl when a headline caught my eye: _Burton Launches New PPP on Low Carbon Techs._

Beneath it was a photo of the famous scientist Philip Burton shaking hands with the Secretary of State for Energy and Climate Change. The sight of the article made me flash back to Connor's comments last night about "working for Philip." Could he have meant Philip Burton? The man had seemed to be involving himself in all of sorts of government projects lately. But Burton didn't strike me as the sort to get involved in covert operations; as was obvious from his photo in the tabloid, he was more of a media darling.

Still, it was a possibility, and likely one Sherlock hadn't yet considered. Perhaps I might be one step ahead for once!

I reached into my pocket for my mobile, about to text him, when the train started to slow and "Green Park" was announced.

I stood up with a sigh as the train pulled into the station, frustrated that the ride had been so short, though I probably should've been grateful Sherlock hadn't sent me out to Docklands somewhere. I'd simply have to text Sherlock later, for now I had covert operations of my own to concentrate on.

...

If our meeting had been meant to be inconspicuous, it certainly failed. Due to the rain, I was the only person crazy enough to be sitting in a deckchair, though a member of staff still insisted on seeing my ticket and photo ID. After he left, I began to notice someone skulking amongst the trees at the perimeter. Whenever the movement caught my eye, the person seemed to skitter back to the safety of the trees, as if he didn't want me to see him approaching. Realising I could drown if this continued much longer, I turned my deckchair away from the trees, pretending to take in the empty footpath now in front of me.

In a moment, I heard a voice at my elbow.

"Dr. Watson?" I started to turn but the boy continued, "Don't turn around. Show me some ID."

I once again dug out my wallet and flashed him my provisional driving licence. After examining it closely, he stepped around in front of me as he handed it back, saying, "You can't be too careful, you know?"

Now that I could see him, it was clear the bespectacled boy had watched too many spy films, for over his several layers of clothing he wore a long, dark trenchcoat.

Realising he might treat me better if I showed the same sort of concern, I said, "I couldn't agree more-where's your ID?"

The boy beamed, as if he'd found in me a kindred spirit, and dug into his many pockets to pull out a laminated ID card. Handing it to me, I had to hide my smile-this card was clearly homemade, with a pixelated image of a blue and white logo with the letters A-R-C in a circle and the phrase "Official Informant" under his name and photo. However, the boy seemed so solemn that I tried to match his attitude, pretending to study the ID carefully before nodding and handing it back to him.

Now that introductions had been made, Duncan didn't waste any time. "So you said there was another death last night."

Realising Sherlock must've emailed him as me, I nodded. I wasn't sure what exactly I should and shouldn't tell, but I figured the news would eventually learn most of it so I didn't hide anything. "Another body found near the Thames. Similar injuries to the last three."

"Did it lack injuries to the head and feet?"

I nodded. "It's suspected that he was killed by a large reptile, possibly a pet crocodile."

Duncan looked sceptical. "Was that the coroner's conclusion?"

"No," I said, starting to feel like I was heading into treacherous waters. "An animal expert's."

"Oh! Was it Abby?" he asked eagerly. I was so surprised that he, too, was somehow entangled with this mystery that I paused before answering, causing him to prompt, "Hot blonde?"

I smiled and nodded, which only made Duncan's shoulders droop with disappointment as he mumbled under his breath, "Then they must already know, so I guess there's no point in contacting Connor."

"Connor Temple?" I asked, though I already knew the answer.

Duncan nodded. "So you know him, too? Can you believe he landed such a hot one? Gives the rest of us hope, yeah?"

Considering every female I'd yet met in this case was already taken, I didn't see much use in hoping, but I smiled and gave a noncommittal, "Yeah, I suppose."

Since it was clear there was no further information either of us could supply to each other, Duncan shook my hand and scurried off into the rain. I waited till he was out of sight before standing myself and heading north out of the park. Just up the street from the tube station was a Caffe Nero, and I waited until I'd warmed myself with several sips of coffee before texting Sherlock.

 _ARC - ever heard of it?_

The boy's ID had been bothering me. "Official Informant" it had read, and here he was, skulking in the bushes to glean information from me that he'd obviously been planning to pass along to Connor. I was busy typing in more when I received Sherlock's cryptic reply: _Very funny_

 _Think it's related to these animal attacks. Duncan knew Abby and Connor._

I took a much-needed sip of my coffee and was already typing again when Sherlock texted back: _What are you talking about?_

 _Also, remember when Connor mentioned working for Philip-think he could've meant Philip Burton? He's apparently been partnering on government projects lately._

An attractive young woman had to reach around me to retrieve her umbrella, but unfortunately my attempts to chat her up failed. After she left, I noticed that Sherlock had left another frustrating message: _Who is this?_

 _Stop messing about, Sherlock!_ As if he hadn't sent a zillion texts to this number last night during Connor's interview.

 _You've definitely the wrong number._

That was it. I'd had it with Sherlock and his stupid games! So I hit the number on the text display and angrily put the phone to my ear, ready to give him hell.

I was therefore shocked when a girl's voice answered: _"This is Jess."_

I immediately rang off, wondering who the hell I'd just called. Apparently my texts HAD all been going to a stranger-no wonder his replies had made no sense.

I went to my address book and rang Sherlock's number.

Yet, once again the same girl answered: _"Jess speaking."_

My mind whirled. Who was Jess? And why did she have Sherlock's mobile?

Then I suddenly remembered the pretty girl from the station last night was named Jess. Could she have nicked his phone? It seemed unlikely. Yet Sherlock had nicked Matt's communication device, and Matt hadn't even bothered to mention it when I'd seen him at the autopsy this morning. Maybe Sherlock wasn't the only person guilty of larceny.

 _"Hello?"_

The girl's voice at the other end of the phone made me realise I needed to say something. But what? There were no doubt thousands of Jesses in London, so what were the odds that Sherlock's number would randomly connect me to someone I'd met only last night. She obviously didn't recognise my number-and why would she, for I hadn't even told her my name when we'd met, let alone given her my number-so I grasped for something I could ask that would confirm her identity without giving away mine.

Finally, I stammered, "Um, may I speak to Captain Becker?"

Jess laughed, and I could easily picture the girl from last night as she responded, _"Very funny. He's not ALWAYS hanging about the hub, you know."_

So that confirmed it! The people from last night-and this morning-had Sherlock's phone! I had to let Lestrade know immediately!

But first I needed to get off this call.

"Right," I said, "I'll...uh...ring back later."

I immediately rung off and texted Greg: _That pretty girl from the station last night nicked Sherlock's phone._

Of course, Jess hadn't actually been anywhere near Sherlock so it was more likely Matt Anderson or Captain Becker who'd stolen it, but that was too complicated to get into at present. Right now, Greg simply needed to know that Sherlock's phone was in the hands of the people we'd been investigating.

 _Pretty girl from the station?_

I realised that Greg had probably never seen Jess either, as she'd been in the lobby the whole time, so I quickly explained: _Her name was Jess. Friends with our grumpy soldier. I think she was the one that helped spring the others last night. Don't know why Sherlock didn't recognise her when clearly she runs with the rest. I wonder how she could've gotten Sherlock's phone. Perhaps when we were interviewing Connor?_

No, Sherlock had been too busy texting me during Connor's interview. But that meant he might've had it out when we went in to interview Matt Anderson. But surely Sherlock would've noticed.

 _Who is this?_

I was surprised Greg didn't have me in his contacts list. _John Watson._

 _Where are you?_

 _Caffe Nero on Stratton. Sherlock sent me to interview some nut about the crocodile killings._

If he'd gone himself, I thought, he might'verealised himself that his phone was missing.

And he'd be the one now dripping wet in a coffee bar.

 _Stay there. Wait outside._

Wait outside? Seriously? Did none of my friends understand the concept of rain? I mean sure, it wasn't like I was going to melt, but I was only now getting warmed up, thanks to the coffee, and I didn't relish the idea of standing in the rain. However, Greg was probably sending a car for me instead of coming to get me himself, so I decided there was nothing for it but to wait outside. There wasn't even an awning to stand under, but the rain had slowed to a mistso an awning wouldn't have helped much anyway.

I hadn't exactly been expecting a marked patrol car, but I was surprised when an unmarked black panel van pulled up to the pavement.

I was even more surprised when Connor rolled down the passenger window. "Twice in two days, Dr. Watson! It's brilliant, yeah?"

I was so shocked that I didn't noticed the men in black who'd jumped out of the back of the van until they were grabbing me and tossing me inside.

...

The back of the van was dark, so I didn't realise that Captain Becker was one of the men in black until we'd parked in an underground car park and he was helping me out. He escorted me up a lift into a large, low-ceilinged room, and I soon found myself sitting in a glass office with him, Jess, Connor, and an uptight man in a pin-striped suit.

Everyone was talking at once, and at first I couldn't sort out what was going on. I heard the name Lester, and I eventually placed the name-Jess had mentioned that Lester had been the one to help spring the others last night. Despite the fact that he supposedly had cats named Sid and Nancy, I deduced that Lester was, in fact, the suited man in whose office I was currently sat and who was clearly the head of all this.

Whatever this was.

Through the chaos, I eventually realised that Jess was asking me a question. "How did you ring here?"

I was confused by her question. "How did YOU get hold of Sherlock's phone?" I asked back.

"Wait, you nicked Sherlock's phone?" Connor asked eagerly, interrupting Becker, who had been angrily berating the lad for his internet activities. "That's brilliant! Can I see it?"

"I didn't nick anyone's phone," Jess insisted.

Lester-was that his first or his last name, I wondered-sighed, as if he had better things he could be doing. "So who exactly is he again?"

"He's Dr. John Watson, of course, of the Hat-Man and Robin blog."

Not liking Connor's answer, Lester turned to Captain Becker, who answered more directly, "He's one of the men from the station last night."

"I still can't believe I didn't get to meet Sherlock," Connor continued almost to himself before turning to me to ask, "What, was he busy investigating stuff when you was grilling me?"

Becker rolled his eyes in frustration while their boss seemed to take a more pointed approach, asking Connor directly, "Don't you have work you should be doing?"

"No," Connor blurted out before hanging his head in chagrin, hiding his face behind the brim of his grey wool trilby. "Well, yeah. Philip's got me working on a new project, but-"

"Philip Burton?" I asked, causing everyone in the room to start.

"What do you know about Philip's involvement?" the suited man asked, walking over to my side.

"It doesn't matter what he knows about Philip," Jess interrupted. "What matters is how he got this number!"

I looked up to see both Captain Becker and Lester leaning over me, the latter prompting, "Well?"

In fear of what they might do, I answered truthfully, "I don't know what you're talking about. She's the one who answered when I rang," I said, pointing across the room to Jess.

With all eyes now on her, she clearly felt uncomfortable. "It was the hub phone that rang-of course I was going to answer it. And his texts were coming through the hub as well."

"But how?" Connor asked. "It's a private line, yeah?"

"Precisely!" Jess insisted. "It's all linked to the comms, which are supposed to be secure. So how did he breach it?"

"Well?" Lester asked, turning towards the soldier. "You're head of security. How did this happen?"

"How should I know?" Captain Becker asked, nodding to his coworkers as he added, "They're the ones who do the tech stuff."

In the meantime, my mind was racing. I still didn't quite understand what had happened. Jess had said my calls and texts had been coming through some hub. Had Sherlock rerouted his phone? Or somehow linked it directly to their communication system? After all, he had Matt's stolen communication device-is that how he'd done it? But what exactly had he done? And why?

And while the others in the room clearly seemed angry, I wasn't in fear for my physical safety. For an abduction, they'd treated me quite gently, and I wasn't actually being restrained in any way now, other than the tall, fit soldier standing between me and the doors. So who exactly were these people?

And where were we? Glancing out the office windows, I could see a bustling technological workspace. What did all this have to do with Mycroft? Or a series of crocodile killings? If only Sherlock were here, he'd be able to piece it all together, but I felt as if I were staring at a jumbled jigsaw puzzle with no inkling of the big picture.

But then my eyes alighted on something familiar. The door to the office seemed to display the same logo that Duncan's badge had had. I strained to read the words printed on the outer blue circle. "So what exactly is the Anomaly Research Centre?" I asked, reading aloud.

Connor gasped. "How did you hear about us?"

The soldier gave a frustrated sigh, rolling his eyes as he nodded towards the seal on the door.

"It was on Duncan's ID as well," I added.

"What ID?" "Who's Duncan?" "You know Duncan?" After speaking all at once, the others turned their attention to Connor, who attempted to answer at least one of the questions.

"Duncan's me mate. The one what helped us locate the _Kaprosuchus_ , right after me and Abby got back."

"And why, may I ask, does he have an ID with the ARC logo on it?" Lester did not seem pleased.

When Connor didn't answer straightaway, I replied, "He was listed as an 'Official Informant'."

Connor cringed under the intense looks of his workmates and tried to explain. "I asked Duncan to keep us informed of anything that might be useful, and he asked for a badge. What else could I do? I couldn't leave a mate hanging."

Becker rolled his eyes as Lester asked snidely, "Do you not remember signing a little thing called the Official Secrets Act?"

"But he already knew!" Connor insisted. "I mean, he was there when Tom died. And he was the one what led us to the _Kaprosuchus_. I figured making him an ID card couldn't hurt none."

I could practically see the steam coming out of Lester's ears so I quickly stepped in, saying, "The ID didn't really look official. More like something printed and laminated at home."

This seemed to appease the suited man, but Connor was clearly disappointed. "I worked hard on making them look all official-like," he mumbled to himself.

For some reason I felt bad for the boy, so I added, "Clearly Duncan thinks it's real," which brought a smile back to Connor's face.

But not to Lester's. "You need to destroy it...and any others you've handed out." Clearly he'd noticed, as I had, the plural in Connor's earlier statement.

"Do I have to?" the lad whined but got his reply from Becker's stern eyebrows. "Alright, alright," Connor went on, mumbling under his breath, "though I'm not sure I'll be able to track 'em all down."

Jess shook her head, clearly exasperated at getting off track once again. "So back to this comms business-" she began but didn't get any further for the door opened and Matt Anderson stuck his head in, proclaiming, "We're back."

"So?" Lester asked. "Was it the same creature?"

Matt nodded his head towards me, having now had a moment to glance about the office and notice my presence. "Yeah. Didn't Dr. Watson tell you?"

"You was there, too?" Connor asked, obviously feeling like he'd once again missed out on all the fun.

Matt, however, had other business. "I've brought in Emily," he said, which explained what he'd been doing since leaving Barts. "You said we could house her in quarters on-site till Ethan's found?"

Lester nodded. "Put her in the Quiet Room-no one ever uses it anyway, being the least quiet room in the whole building."

"Less quiet than the mammoth enclosure?" Connor joked.

But Jess has something more important to add. "Matt, the anomaly at the theatre closed. Can you break the news to Emily?"

I didn't understand her statement, though clearly she felt it was bad news. However, the twinkle in Matt's eye as he responded, "Yeah," suggested he wasn't nearly as upset by it.

My eyes wandered outside the office to where Emily stood a short distance away, waiting. She was dressed in a similar outfit to last night's, though she held in her a hand a bag full of clothes with what looked like a corset of sort peeking out of the top. I was intrigued, as she hadn't struck me as the sort to enjoy fancy dress parties or Steampunk conventions. But Jess had mentioned a theatre, so perhaps that's how it tied in? But what exactly was an anomaly? And what did it mean that it had closed?

"So did Dr. Watson simply stop by for a social call?" Matt's remark jolted me back to the conversation.

"We brought him in," Becker explained.

"He rang the hub," Jess said.

Matt's face didn't even change expression. "How'd he manage that?"

"We don't know!" Jess insisted, clearly exasperated. "That's why he's here, so we can sort it out."

Matt shrugged, seemingly unconcerned. "Did he ring from his mobile?"

All eyes turned towards me, eager to learn my response. I nodded, and Matt continued, nonplussed, "Then wipe it," as he exited the office and led Emily away.

...

The return ride in the van was far less nerve-wracking, as I was no longer in fear for my life, though I was still in mourning for my wiped phone. I couldn't wait to get back to the flat to tell Sherlock of my adventures, for I was certain he'd be interested to hear about the ARC.

Anomaly Research Centre-what could that possibly mean? Jess had mentioned something about an anomaly closing, so clearly anomalies were concrete things of some sort, not some vague scientific principle they were researching. But what could they be? How were they related to the animal killings? And why the need for military security and all the secrecy? Once again I was out of my depth, and I was willing to endure Sherlock's condescension in exchange for having him explain how it all fit together.

Unfortunately, Sherlock wasn't at home when I was dropped off at the flat, and, as per usual, he'd left me no indication of where he'd gone, what he was doing, or when he'd be back. Feeling he should learn of my adventures sooner rather than later, I automatically pulled out my mobile to contact him before remembering that all my data had been systematically wiped. But we still had a landline, so if I could simply remember Sherlock's number, I could still give him a ring. But after staring at the handset for some time, I realised the danger of contact lists and speed-dial-because I'm never forced to actually dial Sherlock's number, I had no idea what it was. Of course, there was a phone number listed on his website, but unfortunately I'd suggested ages ago that he change it to the landline number. Mrs. Hudson would likely know his mobile number, but she didn't seem to be in at the moment. And Greg would surely have it, but I couldn't recall his number either, and I decided it wasn't worth the hassle of going through the automated phone tree at Scotland Yard just to leave a message. Besides, Sherlock probably wouldn't be gone too long, with such an intriguing case waiting for him, so I decided just to wait him out.

While waiting, I decided to look through Sherlock's search history so I'd at least have an idea of what he was thinking. After his reaction to her last night, I was not surprised to find he'd spent some time researching the beautiful brunette. However, Emily Merchant turned out to be a not uncommon name, so most of the searches had led to dead ends. Curiously, Sherlock had also done a search for "Lady Emily Merchant", no doubt having noticed Mycroft's strange address last night, but it also led to a dead end: a link to a brief advert in a Victorian newspaper. It seems a Lord Henry Merchant was offering a reward for the safe return of his wife Emily, who had apparently disappeared without a trace from their home under mysterious circumstances. I flashed on Emily's comment about having been abducted but instantly rejected the idea. This lady, whatever had happened to her, was long since dead; the similar circumstances must simply be a coincidence.

Then I recalled Emily's strange comment about how they had not yet acquired an identity for her. I'd heard of people searching the obituaries, looking for identities of the deceased who could be adopted for fraudulent reasons, though this seemed beyond extreme. Surely that couldn't be what they were doing, could it? Stealing the identity of a woman dead for over for a century? What would be the point? And how was it related to the animal attacks? I simply couldn't make it fit, so I went on.

Sherlock's searching had also involved Ethan Dobrowski, including the link Sherlock had referenced last night about the neighbour of Matt's being killed. The article asked the public for their help in tracking down a killer, and a sketch of the man was included, one that looked surprisingly similar to the one Emily had drawn for us at the station. The link indicated that any tips on Ethan's whereabouts were to be directed to Matt Anderson at an 0808 number. Beyond that, Sherlock's search for information on the man had been fruitless-he'd found only articles about a notorious anarchist of the same name, thought to be from Russia originally, who'd murdered at least a half dozen people before disappearing without a trace in 1902. I wondered again if my idea of fraudulent identities could be true, but why steal the identity of a long-dead criminal, especially if you were one yourself? And clearly there was some concern over Emily's safety, for hadn't Matt said they were going to house her until Ethan was found? So surely Ethan and the others weren't involved in the same scheme, ID theft or otherwise.

Sherlock had followed his search for Ethan with several searches for a Dr. Sarah Page. That wasn't a name that had been mentioned the previous night, and I'd no idea what connection, if any, she had to the case, other than the fact that she, too, had died under mysterious circumstances. Otherwise, what would a PhD in Egyptology, a veteran of archaeology digs from every corner of the Middle East prior to landing a teaching job at the British Museum, have to do with the ARC? Her thesis, found in the British Library, was on mythological beasts, but how did that relate to these modern day animal killings? I didn't see any connection and wasn't sure why Sherlock was interested. Finally, after having exhausted all his links, I went back to Dr. Page's obituary, which was apparently the first link Sherlock had stumbled across. Reading it through to the end, I finally realised the connection-an annual internship had been started in her name with the British Archaeology Council, endowed by none other than Captain Hilary Becker and James Lester. Another coworker perhaps, suggesting that whatever activities were pursued by the ARC were decidedly dangerous.

The last few webpages Sherlock had visited seemed to be searching for an address for Mr. Lester, and I wondered if that was where Sherlock had gone off to. Of course, he wouldn't find the pin-striped man at home in the middle of the day, so I didn't know what Sherlock was hoping to find.

When I heard footsteps on the stairs, I looked up expectantly, only to find Mrs. Hudson letting herself in.

"You needn't look so disappointed," she scolded good-naturedly.

"Sorry," I apologised, instantly chagrined. "I was hoping you were Sherlock."

Mrs. Hudson smiled. "Of course you were, dear," she soothed, giving my shoulder a comforting pat. "But you know Sherlock, always off on some case or other. I don't know how you boys do it, working all day after being out all hours of the night. What time did you eventually get home?"

"After four," I said through a yawn, the lack of sleep starting to catch up with me. "DI Lestrade called us in for assistance."

"He could've waited until morning-crimes will still be there when the sun comes out," she insisted as she fluffed the pillows on Sherlock's chair.

I nodded, not really listening. "Mrs. Hudson, do you think you could give me the number for Sherlock's mobile? My phone's been wiped, and I apparently can't seem to remember his number."

"No."

"No?" I looked up-her simple answer had surprised me.

"No, I can't give it to you because I don't have it. When I bought my new mobile, I was trying to update all my contacts and asked him for his number. But do you know what he said? 'Why would my housekeeper need my mobile number?' and insisted the landline should be good enough for me."

I frowned, not only because I realised I would now have to wait for Sherlock to return but also because I felt embarrassed by Sherlock's behaviour. Between my disappointed looks and Sherlock's rudeness, it was a wonder Mrs. Hudson continued to give us a cut rate on the rent!

But she didn't seem to harbour any lasting grudge for, the next thing I knew, she was heating me up some soup.

"What do you know about entrepreneur Philip Burton?" I asked as she handed me a bowl, knowing she read _The Sun_ regularly.

"Seen his picture in the paper today, did you?" She smiled meaningfully at me. "Quite a handsome fellow, don't you think?"

It took me a minute to realise what she was implying. "I...I really wouldn't know," I said, shaking my head. I then tried to get back on track by asking, "He seems to be involving himself with a lot of government projects lately. Do you happen to know what sorts of activities he's involved with? Anything with animals, perhaps?"

"Animals?" Mrs. Hudson shook her head. "Oh, no. I believe his company-Prosperous Industries, I think it's called-is more science-y in nature. You know, like environmental stuff."

I refrained from pointing out that animals, too, could be "science-y".

"Environmental how?" I asked, trying to remember exactly what the headline had said.

Mrs. Hudson shrugged. "Clean energy, renewable...solar stuff. You know-all that 'green' business."

 _Low carbon techs_ , I recalled from the headline. None of that seemed to fit with the ARC or the animals. I sighed, realising that Philip Burton was a dead end.

But Mrs. Hudson must've interpreted my sigh to mean something else. "I know it can get lonely waiting home alone, so if you want me to stay on a bit until-"

I shook my head. "No, I'm fine, Mrs. Hudson. I've got work to do." I picked my laptop back up, saying absently over my shoulder, "Thanks for the soup. You might as well just put the rest in the fridge, as I doubt Sherlock will want any."

"I'm your landlady, not your housekeeper, dear," Mrs. Hudson said. "You can do your own dishes and putting away."

However, I heard her tidying things in the kitchen, so I made no reply and instead returned to my research, knowing she'd leave when finished. I first investigated Captain Becker's background, but it was all in order-graduated top of his class at Sandhurst, served for a year at FOB Shahzad, as previously mentioned, and then had transferred to elsewhere, which I could only guess was the ARC. When I ran into a wall in terms of gaining more information about his current assignment, I changed my focus to Matt Anderson.

Lucky for Matt, he seemed to be no relation to the forensics expert Anderson whom Sherlock always seemed to clash with at crime scenes. Instead, this Anderson had an army background, yet despite the fact that he'd been decorated for heroism, he was clearly not a career soldier the way Becker was. It seemed Matt was an expert in animal behaviour, which explained why he'd been at Barts with Abby this morning. His online CV indeed confirmed Connor's comment that Matt had scaled Everest, though I couldn't tell when he'd had the time to do so as it didn't seem to fit into his gruelling schedule. Clearly he was an overachiever, as witnessed by his countless glowing references.

Though what was most interesting about Matt's background was the sheer volume of information available. Within a few minutes, I knew the name of Matt's nursery school teacher and the fact that he'd broken his arm at age eleven. There were obvious links tracing practically every moment of his life, and while all work mentions ceased about a year ago-no doubt when he started at the ARC-he'd continue to leave an online trail with his regular donations to the Kew Fund and the People's Trust for Endangered Species. In fact, the latest link was dated only a few days ago, when he had sponsored a heritage tree at Wakehurst in honour of Gideon Anderson.

Curious, I then went in search of Gideon and quickly found his obituary, confirming that he was "survived by his son, Matt." Yet there was no mention of a memorial service or even an "in lieu of flowers". Hadn't this man had mourners other than his son, I wondered? I was somewhat intrigued and determined to find out more.

Yet there was nothing more to find. In direct contrast to his son, whose entire life was chronicled year by year through available online documents, there was not a single item I could find on Gideon Anderson. Were it not for his link to Matt, it would appear as if Gideon had never even existed. Having done searches before for Sherlock's cases, I found this lack of data of any sort rather suspicious-almost as suspicious as Matt's overabundance of available records.

But before I could pursue this idea further, Sherlock suddenly burst through the door with a familiar glimmer in his eyes that usually spelt trouble.

"Diictodons," he began in lieu of greeting. "Ever heard of them?"

"No," I answered, shaking my head-after all, geometry had never been my strong point.

"Not surprised. They went extinct over 250 million years ago."

Now I was really lost. "Then why would you care about dye- dye-ict- what were they called?"

"Sid and Nancy," Sherlock answered absently, clearly over-stimulated by something as he paced, flipping through his mobile.

"Sid and Nancy?" Upon repeating the names, my mind started to connect the dots. "Aren't those the names of James Lester's cats?" I asked, remembering Jess' comment from last night.

"Not cats," Sherlock said impatiently, shoving in front of my face his mobile, which displayed a blurry photo of two fanged rodent-like animals in what appeared to be a modern kitchen. "Diictodons!" he proclaimed grandly.

I glanced at what appeared to be a range cooker in the photo and commented, "I thought you just said they were extinct."

"Exactly!" Sherlock exclaimed, yanking his mobile back. "No wonder Mycroft didn't want us looking into this."

"Into what?" I asked, at a loss as to what he was talking about. However, instead of answering me, Sherlock set down his own mobile and grabbed up mine from the coffee table. "It's wiped," I quickly explained, realising I still had loads to tell him about my day's adventures.

"Doesn't matter," Sherlock said, typing something before absently tossing it back upon the table.

Curious, I reached for my mobile, surprised to see that Sherlock had just sent a text which read simply: _We're onto you!_

Recognising his manic behaviour and wondering how many patches he was currently wearing, I cautiously asked, "When was the last time you slept?"

"Don't be such a bore," he said, rolling his eyes before starting, as if suddenly remembering something. "I should ring Mycroft," he announced, snatching up his own mobile once again from the table. He must've been displeased with what he saw, however, for he threw it back down again, practically shouting, "Why don't these bloody things hold a charge? What happened to the good ole days when you could go a week without recharging?"

"Feel free to use mine," I said with a hint of sarcasm which Sherlock was obviously deaf to.

"Where would be the point in that?"

Seeing as how he'd just used my mobile to send a text, I teased, "Why, don't you know Mycroft's number?" I obviously wasn't going to mention I hadn't been able to recall Sherlock's.

But he was busy shuffling around for something on the coffee table. After a moment, he popped the SIM card out of my mobile and replaced it with another.

I stared, lost as to what had just happened, and absently picked up the SIM card he'd just removed. Unlike mine, this one lacked the O2 logo. "Wait-where did this come from?"

But Sherlock was too busy dialling.

"Hello, brother of mine," Sherlock began, and I knew we were in for it.

As I listened to Sherlock taunt his brother, it occurred to me that the SIM that Sherlock had just removed-the one that had apparently been in my mobile all day-must've been from the black box that Sherlock had nicked and taken apart this morning. That meant that every call and message I'd sent today had gone straight to Jess at her hub.

Thus it was clear that, even if Becker hadn't been in the picture, any chance I might've had with the "pretty girl from the station" was definitely lost.

 _..._

The van arrived shortly thereafter, and I was surprised that Sherlock accompanied the soldiers downstairs without a fuss. Connor again was sat in the passenger seat, but he was so excited when Sherlock emerged that he leapt out and hurried over.

"Sherlock! I can't believe I missed you last night! Bet you were doing something important, though, yeah? But it don't matter because you're here now, and we can chat the whole ride back. Could you maybe do one of those amazing tricks where you read people just by looking at 'em? PLEEEASE!"

Sherlock turned to me, the same desperation visible in his eyes that had been heard in Connor's voice. "Don't make me sit in the back with this rattling, overgrown pup. There was a reason why I didn't join you in the interview room last night. I get enough gratuitous fawning from you, John-the last thing I need is to be slobbered on by a conspiracy-loving superhero junkie whose groupie tendencies are an obvious attempt to deal with his deep-seated daddy issues."

It seemed to be a fairly accurate-and harsh-summing up, yet Connor was grinning from ear to ear. "That was brilliant! Simply brilliant! Just like in the blog! And I betcha got all that from my hat, didncha? That was like magic-you gotta explain how you did it! Oh, but first, do Becker, do Becker next!"

During this gushing, Connor had shoved me aside and forced his way into the back of the van after Sherlock, slamming the door behind them both. I stood there a moment, wondering how exactly it had all happened, before walking around to the passenger door.

Matt, now sat in the driver's seat, didn't seem to bat an eye as I climbed in next to him, obviously not overly concerned about my learning the location of their secret operation. We sat there in silence, waiting, until there was an impatient knocking on the wall behind us, no doubt from Captain Becker, letting us know they were settled into the back and we could proceed. Matt started the engine and pulled out into traffic, his mind no doubt distracted.

It took me several blocks to make the connection between the research I'd done this afternoon and the sheer reality of it all. This quiet man sat next to me, driving an unmarked black van to a secret government facility, was actually in mourning, having lost his father mere days before. Although his face, as usual, betrayed no emotion, I seemed to sense some loneliness, some grief, in the way he carried himself, and I felt somehow compelled to reach out to him.

"My condolences," I said simply, though my sudden voice in the quiet compartment made us both start.

Matt glanced my way, an inquiring look upon his otherwise placid face, and I realised that he hadn't any idea what I was talking about.

"I was doing some research online and read about your loss," I clarified. "Your father, wasn't it?"

Although his overall facial expression didn't change, it seemed a myriad of emotions flashed through his eyes. "Yeah," was his simple reply as he stared through the windscreen at the traffic ahead. "Cheers."

The curious doctor in me suddenly reared its ugly head, for I unfeelingly asked, "Was it sudden, or did you have warning?"

The moment it was out, I regretted it. It was one thing to rail at the obit columns in the paper, frustrated that the cause of death was rarely listed, but it was quite another to grill a near stranger who was still in the thralls of grief.

But before I could retract my statement and apologise for my impertinence, Matt answered my question with a straightforward, "Both."

I nodded, realising it was too late to go back now, and tried to remedy the situation by adding, "Even when you know it's coming, you're never really ready, are you?"

The van then descended into an awkward silence, and I wondered if I should say more. Again, I could see the raw emotions in Matt's eyes-disbelief, sadness, guilt, anger-all the stages of grief coalescing at once. But I could sense something else as well, a strong feeling of anxiety that seemed to overwhelm him, and I wondered what was causing it.

"Did he leave behind a lot of unfinished business?"

Again, I wondered if I'd pried too far, but after an agonising pause, Matt briefly turned his head my way, a wry smile on his lips. "Only me."

I smiled back at him, understanding, for I struggled with the same sort of insecurities myself. Our eyes met, and for a brief moment we shared a connection. He seemed so lost and alone, exactly how I'd felt when I first returned from the war, feeling like I no longer belonged. But somehow I'd muddled through and found my way, and so would he. I gave a slight nod, and Matt returned it, as if acknowledging receipt of my silent message, before his eyes returned to the traffic in front of us and the moment was over. Yet something about that moment lingered, and the rest of our ride to the ARC was made in silence.

...

Becker led us up the lift and into Lester's office, shutting the door behind us and then taking up a post between the two exits, ready to lunge if either of us attempted to leg it. Unlike earlier, only Lester and Mycroft were inside waiting for us, and neither seemed very happy.

"He stole government property," Lester was saying, pointing at Sherlock as we entered. "After having my team detained for spurious reasons! And then he hacked his way into our secure comms. These are not merely minor indiscretions. In fact, does the word 'treason' ring any bells for you?"

"I'd hardly call your comms 'secure'," Mycroft pointed out. "SIM cards? Any idiot could've worked that out."

I could feel Becker bristle behind me, and Lester, too, was clearly upset by the comment. "We do what we can with what limited funds are allocated. But even if we had money for more sophisticated security, there's no guarantee we wouldn't be sitting here right now having this same discussion. I'm told your brother got into the Baskerville compound simply by nicking your Access All Areas ID-I believe any idiot could've worked that out."

Now it was Mycroft's turn to bristle. I glanced at Sherlock, wondering if he was pleased at someone besting his brother or possibly chagrined at having committed so many security breaches lately, but instead he was clearly not paying any attention to the conversation, too busy staring out the floor-to-ceiling windows of Lester's office, trying to glean as much information as possible out of their secret operation.

"I believe your department's work was suspended recently?" Mycroft said pointedly, a not very veiled threat that it might happen again at any moment. "Poor management, I'm told. Numerous failed missions, several lost team members, the death of Dr. Page."

I could feel Captain Becker tense up behind me, clearly upset at the mention of the Egyptologist's name.

Lester seemed upset as well. "Dr. Page's death was a tragedy, but Abby and Connor eventually made it back safely," he quickly defended. "And we've still heard nothing from Helen Cutter, so we can only assume Danny Quinn's mission was a success. Besides, we weren't suspended for long. The Minister quickly concluded that his decision-if it was, in fact, his decision," he added pointedly, looking directly at Mycroft, "was a colossal mistake, and our operation was back up again within months."

"Yes...thanks to Philip Burton and his chequebook."

It was clear from Mycroft's tone that there was no love lost between him and the entrepreneur, and Lester didn't seemed thrilled at the mention of the man either. I, however, was pleased that I'd at least been right about that deduction and curious to know why he was connected.

"As I mentioned before," Lester continued, "funds have always been an issue for us. Military research tends to rank higher than public safety-clearly those in power have more interest in killing absolute strangers than protecting our own citizens."

"The government will prioritise," Mycroft stated drily, making it clear where his priorities lay.

By this time I could practically feel the steam coming out of Becker's ears behind me. Lester's comments, however, seemed less defensive and more sardonic as he continued. "Regardless, your brother has interfered with sensitive and vital government functions." Mycroft scoffed, as if he hardly saw their functions as vital, but the ARC man went on. "If you require a friendly reminder, I do keep extra copies of the Official Secrets Act in the glove box of my jag."

He stressed the last word, obviously trying to show off. Unfortunately, the older Holmes merely gave a condescending smile as he asked, "Oh, you do your own driving?"

I cringed, feeling almost sorry for Lester as he sat up straighter behind his desk. "You know, I thought you'd prefer to deal with this incident quietly, but I could easily ring the Minister to handle it-I have him on speed dial, you know."

Mycroft shrugged, unimpressed. "And he has me on speed dial."

"Yes, yes, Mycroft's is bigger," Sherlock said, obviously finally catching up with the conversation. "So can we just get on with this?"

The answer to his question, however, was a decided "no" for suddenly lights started flashing and klaxons began blaring throughout the facility. Becker automatically started to head out the office door, as if absently following some Pavlovian response, before stopping himself, remembering he was meant to be guarding us. Lester, however, nodded at him, stating simply, "Go ahead," obviously realising that, under the present circumstances, Sherlock and I were not any sort of flight risk. The instant the words were out, the soldier bolted out the door, scurrying down the stairs and away across the low-ceilinged room.

Lester, himself, had already stood as well.

"If you'll excuse me for a minute, we've got innocent lives to save," he said pointedly before hurrying out of the office.

The moment he was gone, Mycroft and Sherlock started into each other, but I tried to block them out, more interested in what was going on outside. I leant over in my seat towards the side door, which Lester had conveniently left opened, and heard the man call across the room, "Is it an anomaly, Jess?" as he hurried after Becker towards the pretty girl who was sat at a far console, surrounded by several large monitors.

Anomaly, I thought, glancing absently over to the ARC logo on the wall. Whatever it was, this anomaly did not seem to be a good thing, based upon the alarms.

Unfortunately, all the players were converging about Jess and were thus too far away for me to hear their conversation. I concluded that Jess had sounded the klaxons as a means to call everyone together, for once the others were gathered about her, the flashing lights and sirens ceased. A plan was discussed, and I noticed Becker tossing out black boxes, like the one Sherlock had nicked, to the others-comm links to Jess at the hub, I realised, though I wondered what other data they were collecting at the same time. Becker then strode over to a workstation behind Jess and opened up several cases, handing out "scientific equipment" to the others before leading them back this way.

As they ascended the stairs, heading for the lifts, Emily suddenly appeared from a side corridor, stopping Matt close to the open office door, allowing me a chance to eavesdrop.

"Is it a gateway?" Emily asked anxiously.

Matt shook his head, putting a calming hand upon her shoulder. "Jess thinks she's located the _Allodaposuchus_. We're going to collect it."

Emily frowned, though I guessed it wasn't in confusion over the foreign term. "Should I not come with you?"

Again Matt shook his head. "We've got this covered. It's best you stay here now, just until we catch Ethan. You'll be safe here...and it'll give you time to unpack."

Despite his dry delivery, Emily must've taken his last comment as a joke for she smiled. "What have I to unpack? It is not as if I have been travelling with my steamer trunk."

Matt nodded. "Yeah, you've a point. I'll have Jess take you shopping for a more appropriate wardrobe." He glanced at her meaningfully and raised a teasing eyebrow before adding, ""Cuz I would like my clothes back at some point."

"Ahem!" Becker's loud clearing of his throat made Matt, Emily, and me all turn to look at the soldier, who was holding the doors to the lift open and impatiently tapping his foot.

Matt and Emily shared a look with each other before Matt sauntered over to where Becker and the others were waiting. Emily stood by till the lift doors were closed before striding back down the corridor from which she'd come, clearly already feeling at home here. As I watched her go, Lester suddenly reappeared in the doorway, startling me back to the present and preventing me from fully processing the conversation I'd just overheard.

Despite being in the middle of a row, Sherlock must've sensed Lester's return for he instantly turned to the bureaucrat to ask, "So when do we get to see this time machine of yours?"

I couldn't help but laugh at his obvious evasive manoeuvre and was surprised when Sherlock turned to me to state matter-of-factly, "They brought us all the way down here, and they're going to make us sign that ridiculous Official Secrets Act form again, so they might as well show us the damn thing before we go."

I started to feel unease welling in the pit of my stomach. "Sherlock, you can't actually believe that. A time machine?"

"Of course-it's the only logical solution."

"Logical?" Now I was really concerned-Sherlock was the most logical person I knew, so how could he possibly be inquiring about a time machine?

Sherlock, however, merely sighed. "I've ruled out every other possibility, thanks in part to an extremely loose-lipped Connor in the back of the van," a comment that elicited an annoyed eye roll from Lester, "and a time machine is the only solution that remains."

Mycroft was smiling smugly, which meant two things: Sherlock was undoubtedly wrong, but Mycroft wasn't in the least worried about his brother's mental well-being, despite his insane statements, which I found somewhat reassuring.

"Oh, do tell us how you came to that brilliant deduction, brother," Mycroft taunted.

I thought perhaps, due to his brother's tone, Sherlock wouldn't take the bait, but instead he launched into an explanation without further coaxing.

"Four animal killings in four days, and the same people in the crowd at each-that couldn't be coincidence. Interviewing them, we learnt Abby had connections to previous animal killings whilst at Wellington Zoo, shortly after which she quit to work for some secret government department, one which also employs the military along with assorted scientists, including that puerile yet genius lad in the hat."

I smiled to myself. Sherlock hadn't used the phrase "genius" when he'd summed up Connor earlier outside the van, and I could just imagine the lad's thrill if he knew that part of the deduction.

"If they were interested in the animal attacks," Sherlock continued, "then they must have some reason beyond curiosity for being there. Either they knew what animal was responsible and were trying to track it down, or they weren't certain and were trying to determine the types of injuries sustained during these attacks. Either way, I guessed they'd be eager to examine the bodies at Barts, a fact that was confirmed by you this morning," he concluded directly to me.

I nodded, still wondering why he couldn't have simply rung Molly himself.

Sherlock went on: "Their conclusion for what caused the deaths was some kind of crocodile, but no crocs had gone missing from local zoos. No warnings were released to the public either, letting them know a pet crocodile was wreaking havoc, which meant that they wanted the creature's true identity to remain secret. The only other people who seemed to know about it were a handful of online conspiracy freaks. One had snapped a blurry photo of a blue-tinted crocodile-like predator entering the water, which I would've ignored as a hoax if the photographer hadn't been friends with Connor. Together, these facts suggested that this was no ordinary crocodile, implying the government must not only be interested in the blue croc but somehow responsible for it."

"Careful, brother, " Mycroft broke in snidely. "You're beginning to sound like one of those conspiracy freaks yourself."

Sherlock continued unabated. "But the mysterious crocodile wasn't the only animal that seemed out of place. Right from the first, I could tell that something was off about Lady Emily Merchant."

Sherlock put extra stress on the term "lady" and it seemed to have its desired effect, for Mycroft ever so slightly cringed, realising he was responsible for giving away that clue. Lester also shifted uncomfortably in his seat, meaning Sherlock was on to something. And it was not clear that Sherlock's fascination with the woman in the interview room was naught to do with her beauty but all to do with the fact that he hadn't been able to figure her out.

"No make-up and the man's shirt and jeans she was wearing suggested one type of woman, but her sturdy brown boots and worn old-fashioned jacket suggested another. Her English seemed antiquated, although her manner was quite blunt. She calmly mentioned being abducted, a complaint that had never been registered with the police, though she took no pains to hide it. She lacked any ID yet was upfront about the fact that 'an identity had not yet been acquired for her'. In short, she was a study in contradictions, seemingly belonging and not belonging simultaneously."

During this litany of mistakes, Lester had covered his face, either upset or merely embarrassed that Emily had given so much away, although I still couldn't quite see how it all added up.

"A quick search on line brought me to a Victorian woman of the same name who'd gone missing from her home. The wedding ring, the mixed apparel, the strange language-it all fit. Similarly, the man she was so anxious to find, Ethan Dobrowski, seemed to have disappeared from another time as well. And she said they'd come here to get medicine for a friend, but surely medicine would've been available during their travels. However, I wasn't quite ready to draw a conclusion until I had further proof."

But I simply couldn't see what sort of proof would lead him to a conclusion of "time machine," but Sherlock was, by this point, thoroughly in show-off mode and therefore needed no prompting to continue his explanation.

"Last night, it was discovered Matt Anderson had been carrying a black box-one which utilised, as already mentioned, a SIM card to transmit non-secure comms-but more interestingly, Captain Becker had brought something else with him to the Embankment. This obvious weapon was referred to as 'scientific equipment' by Matt Anderson, who didn't flinch when I aimed it at him. That implied it was non-lethal, which meant they were interested in collecting the animal, not killing it. And if they were collecting this animal, I deduced that there must be other animals around as well, animals that the government-and Mycroft-didn't want us to know about. So I went in search of one."

Was this why he'd gone to Lester's flat, to look for animals? The diictodons he'd discovered there were supposedly extinct. Is that what he thought the blue croc was-some kind of extinct crocodile? I now recalled both Connor and Matt referencing other animals by their scientific names-could they have been talking about extinct creatures as well? And hadn't Connor joked about the "mammoth enclosure"? Could he have been referring to an actual mammoth, not the size of the enclosure?

"But instead of ONE fantastic creature," Sherlock continued, "I found a couple. Two diictodons, to be exact-extinct for millions of years, yet eagerly chewing away at the television cables in James Lester's flat this very afternoon. I have to say, the fact that there were two of them made me wonder if my deductions had been wrong-I momentarily thought the ARC might actually be some sort of reverse Noah project, cloning two of each species for some sort of future preservation. But if cloning were involved, why weren't these experiments being done at Baskerville? And cloning wouldn't explain Emily and Ethan. Still, I had to consider it as a possibility...until Connor confirmed it was rubbish."

Lester gave a loud sigh, and I envisioned the lad getting yet another lecture about the Official Secrets Act.

Sherlock, however, was almost done. "So two extinct yet very much alive animals, two people clearly out of time, and a secret government department staffed by scientists and the military. There was really only one conclusion."

"A time machine," I repeated aloud, still not quite believing it. True, it did seem to account for all the pieces Sherlock had mentioned, but I knew that other pieces-pieces that I'd observed-didn't fit.

Meanwhile, Mycroft was smiling and shaking his head, as if his little brother had just complained of monsters under his bed. "Really, Sherlock, you're slipping. A time machine? How old are you again?"

But Lester was acting decidedly cagey, so apparently Sherlock wasn't far from wrong.

"But they could control a machine," I thought aloud, "and clearly they aren't in control. If they were, there'd be no need for monitored comms or non-lethal weapons...or klaxons," I added, thinking of Becker's Pavlovian response to the lights and sirens. "But if not a time machine, perhaps instead these anomalies are more like...gateways in time?" I suggested, remembering Emily's inquiry. "Emily must've come through one at the theatre-that's why Jess wanted her to know it had closed." And why Matt had looked so pleased at the news-now the beautiful lady was here to stay. "But usually it's animals that come through, such as the croc and the diictodons." And perhaps a mammoth, I thought silently to myself.

So what part did the Anomaly Research Centre play in all this? I guessed their job must be to try to contain what damage might be done by the animals that come through, though I wondered what kind of damage was occurring right now in Lester's flat. But otherwise, the deduction seemed to fit.

"That's why Abby's here, because she understands the animals. And Matt as well," I added, remembering his background in animal behaviour. "And dealing with the animals is dangerous, which explains why the military is involved and why communications go through Jess, who can monitor them all when they're in the field. And Connor..."

I trailed off as I realised every eye in the room was on me. Mycroft looked amused, though I couldn't tell if it was because I sounded like a raving lunatic or because I'd actually outwitted his brother for once. Lester, however, looked alarmed, which told me that it must be the latter. And Sherlock was looking surprisingly self-satisfied.

"It seems you have been paying attention," Sherlock beamed, as if I were his pet dog who'd just successfully rolled over in front of company.

Mycroft, however, wasn't going to let him get away with taking the credit. "Too bad you weren't, little brother. The lack of control should've tipped you off straightaway."

Both Sherlock and Lester bristled at this comment, so before things got too ugly, I quickly asked, "So does that mean...?"

But I was interrupted by the phone on Lester's desk ringing. Lester looked from the phone to Sherlock to me, obviously trying to decide whether or not to answer it in our presence. Finally he shrugged and clicked a button, asking into the speaker, "What is it, Jess?"

The pretty girl's voice echoed through the office over the speaker. "We've captured it. Abby and Connor are going to stay with the creature till backup arrives to transfer it back to the menagerie."

"Any injuries?"

"Only to Becker's pride, I'm afraid."

I wondered what that could mean, but Lester merely gave a small smile, stating simply, "Understood," before disconnecting the call. He then looked up at us, explaining, "It would seem we've just added an _Allodaposuchus_ to our collection."

"From the late Cretaceous," Mycroft leapt in, a strange twinkling in his eyes. "Extinct for 65 million years. And blue!"

Sherlock must've noticed the same look as well for he teased, "You always did obsess over the reptiles."

"While you were so cliché," Mycroft commented with clear disdain. "First pirates, then dinosaurs-no originality in your childhood obsessions. You were as bad as the other schoolchildren, never getting enough of Dippy."

I couldn't help but smile, thinking of my own school trips to the Natural History Museum and suddenly trying to picture the Holmes boys visiting as small children.

Yet here they were, no longer children yet still arguing like them. "Dippy had personality," Sherlock was insisting, "whereas the prehistoric crocodiles were all so boringly similar. It was the variety that fascinated me: Diplodocus, Raptors, Stegosaurus-"

"We had one of those," Lester broke in, clearly wanting to show off, before amending, "Well, dealt with one anyway. Caused quite a lot of fuss in the House of Commons, I'm told, before we were able to get it back through to its own time."

I had never seen Sherlock so impressed, although I heard Mycroft mumble dismissively under his breath, "What can you expect from mere elected officials?"

While I was enjoying seeing this more childlike side of the Holmeses, I was more curious about the current situation. "So where did this Allo-whatever blue crocodile come from?" I asked.

"Official Secrets, and all that," Lester mumbled under his breath before sighing, "though I guess there's no harm in explaining at this point. Four days ago there was an anomaly in the river in Shepperton. We'd hoped we'd arrived there in time, but apparently a creature had managed to make his way through the anomaly before we could lock it."

"You can lock the gateways?" I blurted out, fascinated.

Lester nodded. "Thanks to Connor. He came up with the detector as well." Lester nodded out to the workstation across the room where Jess was sat.

"Told you he was a genius," Sherlock pointed out, as if wanting to remind everyone of the deductions he had been correct about.

But I wasn't in the mood to stroke Sherlock's ego and prompted, "So the croc got through?"

Lester nodded. "We didn't realise until the first death, when the victim washed up in Walton-on-Thames. Jess heard about the potential animal killing and sent the team out to try to determine if it could've been naturally caused or if a creature was, in fact, on the loose. Fortunately-or unfortunately-Abby instantly recognised the wounds, being well familiar with _Allodaposuchus_ from..." Lester trailed off, clearly worried about telling us more than he should.

But he didn't need to go on, for Sherlock had already figured it out, finishing the sentence himself. "From having lived in that time period for a year."

"What?" I asked, wondering how Sherlock had deduced that.

Of course, he was quick to explain. "She and Connor were gone for a year, without access to coffee or the internet-clearly they must've been in another time."

I vaguely remembered Connor's no coffee comment from our initial interviews, and Sherlock must've noticed a lack of posts from _HanSolo83_ during his internet research and known it meant something. I suddenly recalled Lester disputing Mycroft's statement about 'lost team members' by insisting that Abby and Connor had made it back. So the pair had managed to stay alive in the Cretaceous for a year-my esteem for the lad in the hat suddenly increased.

Mycroft nodded. "Not to mention Connor's much more fit than your usual tech genius," he added, looking pointedly at his brother.

Lester looked slightly put off at having been interrupted and continued, "Yes, Abby and Connor knew the creature, so then it just became a job of trying to pinpoint where the creature was. Unfortunately, it seems to have stayed one step ahead of us until now."

But Sherlock was already bored with this conversation for he asked impatiently, "So when do we get to see this menagerie?"

"They've no dinosaurs," Mycroft said dismissively, but Lester quickly defended, "We've a Dracorex. It's an herbivore, but that still counts. And we've a Columbian Mammoth as well."

"A mammoth?!" Clearly Sherlock hadn't only been interested in the dinosaurs!

And Connor had meant an actual mammoth enclosure! Incredible!

"Come with me," Lester said, hopping to his feet and heading for the door, obviously excited to show off for once. "I'm sure Abby won't mind if I give you the grand tour in her absence. After all, you're going to have to sign the Official Secrets Act anyway-might as well see the creatures firsthand before you go."

The pin-striped man led an eager Sherlock and his brother out the door and down a corridor, but something I caught out of the corner of my eye kept me from following. Jess was bounding up the stairs, a towel in her hands, and she reached the lifts just as one opened to reveal a dripping wet Captain Becker. 'Injuries to Becker's pride' indeed-clearly the soldier was not pleased at having ended up in the Thames. However, the towel that was quickly draped around his shoulders and the cooing attention Jess was now giving him as she led him away seemed to assuage some of his humiliation.

Matt Anderson exited the lift as well and turned towards the corridor, no doubt going to check on Emily. However, he noticed me sat alone in Lester's office with the door wide open and sauntered over.

"Meeting finished?" he asked.

I nodded. "It seems they've gone to see a man about a dinosaur," I answered drily, bringing a smile to the man's normally stoic face.

"Figured it out, yeah?" Matt commented, sounding almost impressed. "No wonder Connor's always raving about him."

I nodded, not feeling the need to point out that Sherlock had only deduced part of the operation. But then, Sherlock hadn't all the same facts I'd had.

Including all the facts I'd discovered about the man now stood in front of me. A myriad of mindless details I'd read about his past, in sharp contrast to the lack of information on his recently deceased father. I tried to reconcile these facts with the things we'd just learnt. Emily had come through an anomaly from the past, and no doubt so had Ethan. They were in the process of "acquiring an identity" for Emily, which probably meant forging records to cover up the fact that her real birthdate was over a century ago. Could that be why Matt had such extensive online records? Could they have been trying to forge an identity because he, too, had travelled forward in time? It seemed to make sense.

Yet he must be from this time, for the grief I'd seen in his eyes meant that his father really had died just days ago. Though Gideon's lack of information seemed to suggest he didn't belong in this time either. Could they have travelled through together, father and son, to this new time?

The son now stood in front of me must've noticed my look of concentration for he asked, "You all right in here?" He glanced about, no doubt trying to gauge whether it was secure to simply let me stay in Lester's office alone.

"So is the ARC going to supply Emily with a online identity like yours?" I inquired as I continued to try to make sense of everything, confused as to why they hadn't done so for his father.

Matt raised his eyebrows and gave me a wary look.

I realised that he didn't know what all I knew, that he wasn't aware that he didn't have to keep Emily's situation a secret anymore, so I quickly explained, "Sherlock deduced that Emily-or should I say Lady Emily Merchant-came here from another time, and she mentioned to us that people were working on acquiring her an identity. I'm assuming she meant records that would make her seem like she belongs here, such as a birth certificate, school grades, medical...records..."

Whilst I'd been talking, Matt had closed the door to the office, and it had taken me awhile for this fact to sink in. Usually people closed doors when they wanted a conversation to remain private, so why would Matt not want others at the ARC to overhear what I was saying? Clearly everyone here was aware of where Emily had come from and would recognise that she'd be needing records, so why hide that from them?

Unless the rest of the ARC didn't know about his overly-detailed online background.

"They don't know, do they?" I asked.

"Know what?" he asked in the same dry yet evasive tone that he'd used all during his interview, the same flat affect that had seemed to frustrate Sherlock so. Like a spy, I'd thought at the time, and maybe he was. Perhaps he'd arrived via an anomaly and was hiding that fact from...

But that didn't make sense. If he'd come through an anomaly, the ARC team would know because they'd have been there to lock it behind him.

Unless he'd slipped through before they'd arrived, just like the crocodile. But if that were true, how had he ended up working here? The ARC was a secret department-if Matt had slipped through an anomaly undetected, how would he have learnt about them in order to apply for a job here? It didn't make sense.

"How would you know about the ARC if they didn't know about you?"

"I'm not sure what you're getting at," Matt said carefully, tossing his leather jacket, which he'd just removed, over his shoulder. But the motion made me notice something on his arm, and I couldn't help but stare.

Three small circular scars upon his elbow. I stared at them for a moment, trying to wrap my head around them. "Arthroscopy," I mumbled.

"Yeah." Matt glanced down at his elbow and self-consciously covered the barely-noticeable scars with his other hand as he explained, "I broke my elbow when I was eleven. They, uh, had to do surgery to reattach the blood vessels."

I nodded mindlessly, already knowing all that but starting to realise something else. Based on Matt's current age, his surgery must've been performed about twenty years ago, which was just about the time that arthroscopic surgery had started to come to the fore. That meant he couldn't be from the past because that sort of surgery wouldn't have been available much before then. Of course, that was assuming his medical records were correct in the first place. But they'd have to be, for any doctor who examined him would recognise the scars and be able to tell that his wounds had been inflicted before adolescence.

But could he and his father have come through when Matt was still a child, I wondered, grasping at straws to try to make everything fit. But no-if Matt had come through an anomaly as a child, his records since then would be like anyone else's.

"So you're not from the past," I concluded aloud.

Matt's eyes twinkled, clearly amused. "From the past? No."

I felt such a fool, and I was glad that Sherlock wasn't here to see my deductions fall apart.

Yet something was still going on, and I was determined to sort it out. I took a deep breath, trying to think it through. Matt didn't want his coworkers to know about his overly-detailed records, which suggested he was trying to hide the fact that he didn't belong here. He worked for the ARC, suggesting that his reason for not belonging was due to the anomalies, yet his scars proved he couldn't have travelled from the past. And the ARC was secret, so he couldn't have known about it without them knowing about him?

Correction: the ARC was secret NOW. But who knew what might happen in the future. An anomaly could open someplace obvious, or a creature could escape which couldn't be hidden from the public, and then the ARC's existence could become exposed to everyone.

Including Matt Anderson.

Who'd seemed highly amused just now that I'd thought he was from the past. No wonder.

"You're from the future, aren't you?"

The question seemed to hang in the air for just a second before a sharp rap on the glass caused both of us to start. As I turned towards the source of the noise, the office door was opened.

"I was told you had returned," Emily said as Matt turned to greet her. "Did you capture the creature"

"Uh, yeah. Yeah. Abby's, uh, going to, ermh, bring it back here shortly."

From the way Matt was stumbling over his words, I imagined he was having as much difficulty shifting gears as I was.

Emily clearly wasn't suffering from the same. Upon noticing me, she asked Matt, "Why is Dr. Watson here again?" before directing her next question to me. "Have you located Ethan?"

Before I could respond, the other door to the office flew open, revealing an extremely excited Sherlock. "John, you must come at once," he announced, his eyes flashing with merriment. "You won't believe all the things that have come through these so-called anomalies-far more interesting creatures than Dr. Stapleton's luminescent rabbits. And Mycroft is practically beside himself because they're to be bringing in the blue crocodile at any moment. Come on."

Without thinking, I had turned towards Matt Anderson when Sherlock commented about "all the things" that had travelled through the anomalies, but the quiet man had simply returned my look with a steady gaze.

Once Sherlock's anxious entreaty was finished, Matt calmly agreed, "Yeah, you ought to check them out. We've quite a collection."

And while his words, and even his expression, betrayed nothing to the others in the room, the ever-so-slight nod that he gave me confirmed that I'd just been talking to the most fantastic thing to have come through an anomaly. There were so many questions I wanted to ask him-what was the future like, why he was here, why did he need to keep his true identity from all those he obviously cared about-but now was not the time. I could somehow sense that, whatever he was doing here, whatever he was hiding, he meant no harm, and who was I to expose him?

I nodded at Matt, saying pointedly, "I look forward to seeing the animals."

"Then hurry up," Sherlock insisted. I stood and followed him out of the room, knowing that nothing I was about to see could compare to what I'd just experienced.

EPILOGUE:

I wrote the above shortly after the events themselves, but I then put the account away, assuming that it would never see the light of day, thanks to the threat of treason implied by the Official Secrets Act form I'd signed. But after the events of this past week-the _T. Rex_ rampaging through the city centre, the appearance and then disappearance the world over of the mysterious golden lights, the electrical surge and resultant storm, followed by the martyred death of Philip Burton within his own power station-I realised that there weren't many secrets left.

I contacted Mycroft, and he assured me that all those I had met had survived the incidents, including Matt Anderson. I recalled Matt saying that his father's only unfinished business was him-could the two men have travelled back in time to stop something from happening...or to ensure something did? Was it tied to what all had just happened? I can't help but wonder if Matt's business is now finished...and if he'll ever tell his friends the truth.

The other day, I searched online for each of the people I'd met, trying to find out more about what really happened. Interestingly, this time I stumbled across a second item regarding Lady Emily Merchant. It was an article from 1868, describing how Lord Henry Merchant, his driver, and Dr. Alistair Webster had all been found dead, the apparent victims of Spring-Heeled Jack. Lady Merchant's body had never been found, although she had been seen earlier that day in the company of her husband and Dr. Webster. There was speculation, fuelled by the fact that details about her earlier disappearance had never been fully explained, that she had somehow been in league with the killer and they had stolen away together, as Spring-Heeled Jack had not killed since. I wondered what the real story was-another creature perhaps, this one loose in Victorian London? I suppose I'll never know.

When I heard about the incidents on the news, I spoke of what I had experienced to Mary, and she thought it'd be good for me to publish this now. She thought it would help me get some closure. My therapist agreed, saying it was a good reminder that I am still a competent person, even without Sherlock. And Greg pointed out that Sherlock's fans would be thrilled to read one final mystery that they hadn't been privy to previously, and perhaps it would bring Connor some joy to know that he's a main character in Sherlock's "last new" adventure. So I'm publishing this blog now in the hopes that it can help others who are still missing Sherlock and who, like myself, have been anxiously hoping he'd somehow return.

Going back and rereading what I'd written at the time of these events, I stumbled upon the comment, "Just once I'd like to figure out something before Sherlock." And while it was nice to recall a time when I actually had outwitted him, it seems a hollow victory now. I would readily go back in time myself and let him deduce it all, even Matt's true identity, if only I could have Sherlock back alive again. He was a true "anomaly", and I miss him so.

THE END

[Author's notes: For those of you who don't know, this was a crossover with the ITV series _Primeval_ , set after episode 4.6. I hope you enjoyed the story, and I highly recommend you watch _Primeval_! The characters involved in this story are from series 4  & 5 (although all 5 series are brilliant!) I hope I did justice to the characters from both shows!]

[Acknowledgements: I could not have written this story without getting loads of help from others. Kevin & Bethany helped me brainstorm the plot of the entire middle section while Cathleen did the same for the ending. And Cathleen & Ellie both acted as my _Sherlock_ references, answering any questions that I had. Thank you to you all!]


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